Brilliant Hearts and Minds
by Anonymississippi
Summary: When a celebrity realtor gets shot in his home, Goren and Eames delve into the world of familial mistrust and cardiothoracic surgeons. Hard-hitting interrogations, snarky comments, and potential B/A flirtation. Will our heroes get their perp?
1. Chapter 1

**_Hello all. So, remember that murder at the bank that Goren and Eames went to solve after 'Knit Cap'? Well, this is the case AFTER that. At least in my head. I'm on the last scene/chapter right now, so updates will be frequent. I tried to keep it strictly third person. I wanted to write it as close to something they would film_ _as possible. Hence, the time stamps. __The first chapter has a lot of OCs running around, but keep at it and our heroes will make a showing. As always, reviews appreciated._**

_**Don't own... All belongs to Wolf and USA. If I did, then Eames would play the soundtrack to Mamma Mia every time she drove. **_

Mount Sinai Hospital

Manhattan, New York 1:14 p.m.

"Dr. Richmond, here are those x-rays you wanted on Darren Gallagher. Take a look at this." The young nurse took out two x-rays and put them up on a backlit observation board. "You see that mass?"

"Yeah, what is that?"

"No idea, but you should probably get Gallagher in here asap. You can do an angiogram to be sure, but you're probably going to have to open him up to get at it, whatever it is. I've never seen anything like it."

Dr. Richmond sighed. "Thanks Cynthia. And I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this to yourself. We don't want someone like Darren Gallagher's medical records floating around the hospital."

"What? Me, talk about a patient? Diana, you know better." She grinned mischievously.

"That's right, I do. Which is why I'm emphasizing it this time."

"No problem Dr. D. My lips are sealed."

Cynthia slipped out of the x-ray room. As soon as she left, Richmond picked up the phone and hit her speed dial. "Billy, can you get down to my office? I need a consult when you've got time."

* * *

><p>"Diana, what is that?"<p>

"I don't know. You operated, do you remember anything from his previous surgery?"

"Not specifics, that was nearly a year ago. It was a crappy double bypass."

"Billy, he came in with severe chronic chest pains. He's having trouble breathing. We're going to have to open him up again."

"He didn't do so well last time he went under. Coded twice. We'll have to talk to him and his wife to get him back on the table." Dr. William Parsons leaned back in an uncomfortable office chair and rubbed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "It's no big deal. Sometimes patients have a hard time after a physically traumatic surgery."

"Thanks, Billy. I didn't learn that in my four years of med school."

"You know what I mean, Diana. Just get him in here and we'll crack a few ribs, snip a few vessels, and bada-bing! Good as new."

"Okay, but it's going to suck for you going in blind. The angio was inconclusive."

"You say suck, I say… challenge." He got up and stood over Dr. Diana Richmond, who was still staring at the coronary angiogram and the x-rays. "Look, it's not a big deal. At worst it's a swelling of the ventricular wall. See?" He leaned over her and pointed toward the ballooned mass on the photosensitive sheet. "I'll need, three, four people in the OR tops. You can first assist if you're that worried."

"Alright, alright, I'll get him a slot for next week. I just don't need a botched surgery on a public figure to come back to the department and bite us in the ass. Neither do you, by the way."

"You worry too much, Rich."

* * *

><p>"I told you once, and I'm going to tell you again, there is no way in hell that is happening." Dr. William, 'Billy' Parsons was practically yelling into the telephone. "I took an oath, you know, <em>first do no harm<em>. You ever heard of that?"

Dr. Richmond quickly came into his office and shut the door. She sank down in the chair across from Dr. Parsons' desk.

"I've got enough on my plate without _you_ calling and making outrageous requests… I could lose my license… Hell, I could go to prison! No, just, stop, I don't care what you tell the papers, I'm not doing it. You're lucky I don't call the cops!" He slammed the phone so hard onto the receiver that Diana Richmond jumped in her seat.

"Obviously, it's who I think it was," she said, rubbing her temples.

"He won't go to the papers, that's… that's libelous. He just can't…" Dr. Parsons trailed off, looking utterly defeated. "You told me those cases would come back to haunt me, Diana, I just never figured like this."

"This is not your fault. Gallagher is set for the OR this afternoon, and you're going to go in there and do what you do best."

"Screw with people's insides?" he said, attempting to smile.

"No…" She crossed behind his desk and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You're going to save his life."

* * *

><p>"Suction…" The operating lights glared harshly over Drs. Parsons and Richmond, as well as the currently sedated Darren Gallagher. "Cynthia, I need some irrigation over here. I can't see a damn thing." Dr. Parsons slowly but skillfully weaved in and out of Gallagher's chest cavity, using prodding and poking tools to get access to the heart muscle. "Oh, shit!"<p>

"What is it, Parsons?" Dr. Richmond asked. No change in vitals, but Dr. Parsons looked close to a panic attack.

"Look, just there."

"Oh my god," Cynthia murmured.

"I'd appreciate it if this stays in the operating room," Dr. Parsons said. "Cynthia, more suction. We can get in here and fix this, but if anyone asks, he had severe pericarditis, an after effect from last year's surgery. Are we all on the same page?"

"Yes, doctor."

"Yes doctor."

"Good. Now let's get to work, see if we can get this out before tachycardia sets in."

* * *

><p>West 72nd Street<p>

Upper West Side 10:27 a.m.

"Darren, you heard what the doctors said." Mrs. Carla Gallagher, a prim Manhattanite of 54, rose to chide her ornery husband. "You're supposed to be taking it easy for at least another week."

"How am I supposed to get better if all I do is provide the couch with further indention of my backside?" he said as he opened the refrigerator.

"I wish you would just listen to me for once. If you drink too much you're going to be up all night."

Darren ambled slowly to a bar stool and poured a glass of orange juice. "At least it's not scotch like last night." Carla shot him a worried glance when the doorbell rang.

"Who on earth could that be at this hour?" Carla said, exiting to the foyer.

Darren sipped his orange juice, listening to his wife and the visitor speak as they made their way to the kitchen.

"Darren, look who came by. Wanted to see how you were doing." Carla turned to face the guest and her practiced smile melted.

"What are you—"

The question was left hanging in the air with the sound of four muffled gunshots.

* * *

><p>West 72nd Street<p>

Upper West Side 10:27 a.m.

"What do we got?" Detective Alex Eames entered the posh brownstone with a young guy from CSU.

"Darren and Carla Gallagher, DOA, with two GSWs each. The maid came in and found them around nine. Can't get anything in English out of her, though. If I hear 'ay dios mio' one more time, I'm gonna kick somebody."

"No need for soccer practice this early," Eames said. "Get her to talk to Tucker from MCS. He's fluent. Is this Gallagher the celebrity real estate guy?"

"The very same. Looks like he'll be front page news."

"Yeah, right between the housing market and that Kardashian girl's ass."

"The killer took his brass with him, and we found traces of feathers on the floor."

"Muffled with a pillow," Eames said. "Knew what he was doing."

The CSU guy zipped up a bag with an empty glass in it. "Yeah, or he just watches too many cop shows."

"You and I both know those are so fake." Eames crouched beside Carla Gallagher's sprawled body and slowly lifted her left hand. "We're missing a wedding ring over here."

"Same goes for the mister." Detective Robert Goren rose from behind the kitchen island where the unfortunate Darren Gallagher was slumped face-first in a puddle of orange juice. "Tan line but no ring. Watch is gone as well."

"Are we looking at a robbery here?" Eames asked.

"Eh…" Goren twisted his head back and forth. "We'll have to have CSU case the place, take inventory of what's gone, compare it to an insurance form or something. They said some drawers were ransacked upstairs, maybe some jewelry missing, but come look at this." He turned back around and pointed at a large bowl on the kitchen counter. "His wallet and… keys to a Mercedes. She also left her pocketbook. There's nearly," he flipped quickly through the cash, "$600 in here between the two. It was in plain view of the bodies. Why go upstairs and search when he could make bank down here?"

"Maybe they were looking for something specific?"

"I don't know… too early to tell. But the rest of her accessories don't look cheap either."

"True, she's got on Manolo Blahnik's worth three of my paychecks."

"To quote one Alex Eames, 'maybe we'll get lucky one day and robbery will be the motive'," Goren said, eyeing the tortuously tall heels Eames had indicated. "Would you ever wear these?"

"Heels make it harder to run away, so, no, definitely not. Never on the job, and only if I felt comfortable enough to leave myself with no getaway option," she said.

"Doesn't look like Mrs. Gallagher could have gotten away, even if those were ruby red slippers," he said, rolling the gloves off his hands.

"There's no place like home," Eames answered.

_Next installment coming soon, hope everyone has a lovely weekend. Reviews appreciated :)_


	2. Chapter 2

**_All of the addresses come from what I could get off of Google maps. As you can tell from the pen name, not exactly a New Yorker. So these places may not seem that accurate. Don't own, and Happy Reading :)_**

One PP Major Case Squad Room

Manhattan, New York 3:42 p.m.

"Darren Gallagher was the chief realtor to some of New York's most famous. Three years ago, his firm got a huge spread in _Manhattan Living_ because he closed five deals with some TV people and a CEO or two," Eames taped a picture of both deceased Gallaghers up on a white board and continued her background summation. "He dropped off the real estate scene and had to cut back on his clients due to his failing health. He had a double bypass a year ago, and was just released from another minor surgery two weeks ago."

"Any enemies?" Captain Hannah asked.

"Aside from everyone who ever wanted property in Manhattan? Not really," Eames answered.

"Children?"

"One son," Goren said. "Jackson Gallagher, 26; doesn't seem to have had any contact with his parents for a while. He got busted for drug possession at 17, a B and E at 22. No college enrollment, but last address matches a halfway house on West 52nd Street."

"You think the prodigal son could have returned expecting a warmer welcome?" Hannah asked.

"Maybe, then he went Menendez when they didn't exactly slay the fatted calf for his comeback," Eames quipped.

"Pay the son a visit," Hannah said. "See how he acts when he finds out mommy and daddy have passed. And double check the Gallagher's will. See what Jackson stands to inherit in the event of such a tragedy."

* * *

><p>10045 West 52nd Street<p>

Hell's Kitchen 4:38 p.m.

The halfway house was the same as a million other rehab facilities in the city: bland walls, bulletin boards with activity calendars, and a large "community" room where residents were encouraged to participate in AA, NA, GA, and other sorts of rehab programs. Goren opened the door for the pair and they approached a clean-shaven twenty-something at the front desk.

"Are you here to see someone?" the young man asked.

"Yes, we're looking for a Jackson Gallagher," Eames flashed her shield while Goren wandered off to check out the nearby activity board. "This was his last given address."

"That's me," the clerk answered. He was eyeing Goren curiously as he stepped from behind the counter. "Is there something I can help New York's finest with today?"

"Actually, yes," Goren said, still facing the board. "We were wondering when the last time you spoke with your parents was, Mr. Gallagher."

Jackson Gallagher showed Eames to the dull lobby area and took a seat, placing a clipboard and a coffee mug down on a table. He looked back for Goren, and raised an eyebrow at Eames when he noticed Goren reaching for a pamphlet from the front desk.

"He's just naturally curious," Eames said. "We asked you about your parents…"

"Right, well, I guess it's been… Gah, nearly four years? If you're with the cops you probably looked up my track record. When I got arrested, my parents kinda dropped off the map. Mom and dad weren't exactly the bleeding heart types. They thought your successes were _your_ successes, but so were your screw-ups. It took a six-month stint at Rikers for me to learn that lesson."

"I take it your parents didn't come visit you in prison?" Eames asked.

"Ha, hardly. I used my one phone call on them from when I broke into that bodega three years ago. They didn't even call a public attorney. I was in a bad spot then, drugs when I could get them and booze when I couldn't." Jackson sat up straighter and reached for his coffee. "It feels like a lifetime ago."

Goren came over to the pair and stood behind Eames, opening his binder and extracting a pen. "I don't know if you've seen the papers recently, what with your, uh… work and all, but I'm sorry to say we're actually here investigating your parents murders."

Jackson Gallagher spat back into his coffee cup and leaned over the edge of his chair. "What? No, you're wrong. My parents, they're… they're not dead. I saw them last week!"

"You said you didn't talk to them," Eames said.

"Yeah, I don't, I just…" Jackson sighed. "I try to keep up with them. I mean, dad's in the papers all the time, how could I not? Last year when he had his heart surgery, I went by the hospital when mom slipped out. I'd been sober for two years, thought if something went wrong he'd at least know I turned out okay…" his voice started to crack and Goren made a note. "I talk to Hilda every now and then, just to make sure they're still doing alright."

"Hilda, your parent's maid?" Goren asked.

"Yeah, she let me know about their day to day stuff. Told me dad was going back in for surgery two weeks ago. Said it was minor and I shouldn't worry. It's almost funny, though. I was gonna call them, see if they wanted to see me."

"Why now?" Eames asked. "You said they weren't ah, bleeding hearts."

"No, they're not, well, _weren't_. But they're still my parents. Cutting me off was the best thing for me then. I don't know if you've noticed, _detectives_, but I've straightened up. Sober going on three years. I was doing so well as a resident that they gave me a job my first few months here! I thought if not dad, maybe mom might…" but Jackson didn't finish the thought. He stood up and began to pace. "I want to know what happened."

Goren shut his binder and sat calmly in one of the lobby chairs. "First, we need to know where you were last night between nine and eleven."

Jackson stopped pacing. "Oh, I get it, I see where this is going… rich mommy and daddy, junkie son, I had to have killed them."

"I don't hear an alibi," Eames said.

"I was here. Doing rounds, making sure everybody was back in their rooms. We have a ten o'clock curfew here Detectives. Check with Dave Price, he manages the center." Jackson picked up his clipboard and headed back to the welcome counter. "Even better, I'll pull the security footage from our cameras for last night. Have a look for yourselves."

Eames and Goren got up and walked back to the counter.

"And just so you know, there was no way I was in that will, if that's what you're thinking. They disowned me at seventeen, after I skipped out of their reform school. You can check with their lawyer. I had no reason to kill them." He shoved the security tapes across the counter and sat down heavily in an old office chair. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a funeral to plan."

Jackson picked up the phone as the detectives turned to go.

"You think he's telling the truth?" Eames asked as she started the car. "Mom and dad might have kicked him out, but cutting him out of the will completely? I don't think the Gallaghers saw Jackson as a threat, so why would they write him out? They hadn't spoken in years, he could have used that to his advantage. No one suspects the alienated son."

Goren leafed through some papers in his binder. "He was, meticulous. Very organized at his desk, everything on his clipboard. He could have had the foresight to bring a pillow as a silencer, but his reaction… it was too, genuine."

"We've seen better actors than that guy."

"I know, but, he had no way of knowing whether he would get an inheritance. He said they had, um, cut him off. He would have been risking more than jail if he had been caught. He's proud of his progress… he made it a point to tell us he had been hired there, relatively early in his stay. He pulled out his AA coin when he started pacing. I don't see him killing anyone unless he's positive of a payout. He's very, _aware_ of what would happen if he relapsed."

"Six months in Rikers will do that to you." She pulled onto Broadway on their way back to One PP. "But we still need to check with the lawyer tomorrow. Make sure we're not the ones getting blinded by the light of the reformed saint-son. You want to grab some takeout before we get back to the squad room?"

"Chinese?" Goren asked hopefully.

"As long as we get enough sweet and sour chicken, because I am _not_ sharing again."

"Takeout, medical and financial records, not to mention all of Gallagher's real estate clientele records…"

"And?" Eames asked. She watched Goren grin while he looked ahead. "Why are you smiling?"

"No reason, I just… I like my job."

"Ha! Talk to me in six hours when we're out of food and on the second pot of coffee."

* * *

><p>Darrington, Turner and Wesley Law Offices<p>

Upper East Side 9:30 a.m.

"I don't know what Jackson Gallagher told you, but he's not exactly in the dog house detectives."

The Gallaghers were the top of Manhattan, and could thereby afford the top of Manhattan's legal representatives. Luke Turner came from old money, represented old money, and made old money. His office was an experiment in just how much mahogany furniture could fit in a single room. Eames was standing in front of a desk that was big enough to hold a double mattress while Goren played with the various antiques lining the shelves of Turner's office.

"According to the Gallagher's latest will, Jackson stands to inherit at least $20 million, plus their brownstone on the West side," Turner began.

"Jackson told us he was pretty much disinherited due to his drug problem," Eames said.

"There's a contingency here, though," Turner said, directing his attention to Goren's tampering with a carriage clock. "Detective Goren, that is an heirloom from the Spanish American war, I'd appreciate it if it stayed on my shelf."

"Sorry… what's the contingency?"

"According to the most recent version, Jackson only gets his parents earnings if he remains sober for five consecutive years, pending evaluation by me, the family attorney, a psychiatrist, and Darren's brother, Fredrick. If Jackson isn't able to collect because he's slipped off the wagon, Fredrick gets his brother's half of the real estate firm, as well as stocks, bonds and $15 million. The rest goes to a homeless charity."

"Not exactly chump change for brother dearest, is it?" Eames said.

"To Fredrick Gallagher? Fifteen million isn't anything to sneeze at, but he sees that much go through his office every other week. If anything, Fredrick's payday comes with acquiring that other half of the real estate firm. Because with that half, there comes fifty percent more clientele."

"Was there any animosity between the brothers?" Goren asked.

"No animosity, just a little… family competition. Darren was always in the press, deals with reality stars and Fortune 500 CEOs. But Fredrick did the groundwork. He could've been jealous of Darren's celebrity, but I don't think he would have killed his own brother for it. He knew he was never good talking to the press. They had a good system going, I don't know why they would want to mess that up." Turner flipped through a few more pages in the Gallagher's file. It was bigger than a med school textbook.

"We're going to need a copy of Darren's financial records. Could you put in a call to their accountant and have them sent to One PP?" Eames asked. "Especially anything that had to do with the real estate firm."

"Sure detective. The real estate firm's finances might be a little tricky, without a subpoena or permission from Fredrick. But I'll do the best I can. Let me know if you need anything else." Turner rose and ushered the two detectives out of his office, halting when Goren turned abruptly at the doorway.

"Were the Gallaghers taking any other legal action? You seem to be on close terms with them… You have a picture of, well, I believe that's Mr. Gallagher there on a boat. Is it yours?"

Turner straightened up. "Yes, I periodically take some of my more, _established_ clients out for fishing trips. His family has been with me for nearly 30 years."

"So you knew Jackson well then? Enough to know he was getting straight?"

Turner shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. "Jackson was always a good kid. Had his father's tenacity, but not his ambition. He called me when he got out of prison, gave me an address of some rehab facility he was staying at. Called around Christmas every year to check on his parents, too. He just had some hard years right there towards the end of his teens. I feel like if he can keep up the good work for another two years, he could do something really special with his father's money."

"So you'd rather see the money go to Jackson over Fredrick?" Eames asked.

"Fredrick's got enough money. Jackson… I don't think he would waste it like his uncle would." Turner turned and walked back to his desk. "And as far as any other legal action goes, there was an incident with the hospital where Darren had his heart surgery, but we didn't get into heavy details. He had mentioned a malpractice suit about a week ago, but nothing ever came of it. If you need anything else, give my secretary a call." And with that, he waved the detectives away.

Goren and Eames walked down the hallway of the posh law firm.

"Sounds to me like Turner's got a soft spot for Jackson," Eames said.

"Maybe he just wants to see the boy succeed. Overcoming substance abuse is a big deal."

"I know that, I'm just saying he didn't sound too happy to see Fredrick acquiring another few million plus a huge stack of clients. We won't know anything until the forensic accountants go through Darren's financial records though."

Goren hit the down button at the elevator and leaned against the wall. "What did he say about a malpractice suit? Something about his last surgery?"

"He said nothing came of it. We can go talk to Rodgers about it, see if there's anything to it. But still, I think we should take a hard look at Fredrick. See just how much he depended on his brother's celebrity status."

"Right after autopsy… We can take a look at the body and go grab some lunch."

"Autopsy before lunch," Eames said as she and Goren stepped on the elevator. "My favorite." The doors slid shut.

* * *

><p>One PP Morgue<p>

Manhattan, New York 12:40 p.m.

"Well, everything _seems_ to be in order," Rodgers said. Both the Gallaghers were lying face-up on the metal autopsy tables, but their attention was directed at Mr. Gallagher. "They were both killed by the shots, a .38 glock. Mrs. Gallagher took one to the chest and one to the abdomen, probably took her a few minutes to bleed out. Mr. Gallagher, on the other hand…" Rodgers shined the light over Darren Gallagher's professionally sutured chest. "He took two to the heart. Did a real number on it, shredded most of the muscle."

Goren looked between the two bodies. "There were no signs of a struggle, no defensive wounds?"

"No time. They hit the Mrs. first, then took their time with Darren. It's almost as if they were aiming directly for the heart."

Goren looked back through his notes in his binder: _no signs of forced entry, stippling indicates a shooter less than three feet from the victim, angle of entry suggests shooter wasn't over six feet_… "So, you're saying it was all about the heart."

"Yes, although, I don't know why. Mrs. Gallagher over here had her lungs filled with blood, but her abdomen took a bad hit too. But they were definitely aiming for the heart, specifically on Mr. Gallagher."

"And after all that surgery, too," Eames said.

"You're right about that," Rodgers said. She sidled over to a tray that contained the Gallagher's medical records. "Poor Carla would've lived to 110, but Darren had the ticker of a hand-made bomb. He had the double bypass a year ago, and then went back in a few weeks ago for another surgery."

"Why did he have to go back in?" Goren asked.

"Report says pericarditis, which is a swelling of the tissue surrounding the heart muscle. Can cause severe chest pain among other things. But I couldn't tell you for sure. Like I said, the heart's mutilated from both shots. If I hadn't gone to medical school, I wouldn't even know there were four chambers."

Goren looked back and forth between the two bodies then rested his gaze on Darren.

"Care to share with the class?" Eames asked.

"It was all about him," Goren said. "She wasn't the intended target. His shots, there's specificity to it. There was a reason they took out the heart. If she hadn't of been in the house, she'd probably still be alive."

"Guess that's one more strike against homebodies," Eames finished.

"Thanks Rodgers, we'll be in touch," Goren said.

"Of course," Rodgers answered.

The detectives exited the morgue, pulling their coats on as they headed for the car.

"With the significant attention to the heart, I feel like this kill is more emotional. Almost like, a lover's quarrel. But then again, his procedures warrant some questioning, if only to verify what was in the medical reports," Goren said.

"I'm leaning toward the medical motive. I scoured those financials and talked with the forensic accountants. There wasn't anything out of place. No rent for a love-nest for an affair, no extra dinners, no expensive gifts that didn't go directly to his wife."

They reached the department SUV and got in, then made their way out of the One PP garage. "Well, looks like we'll be talking to the docs after lunch now. What do you want?" Eames asked.

"I picked last night, Chinese take-out, remember?"

"Right… well, since hospitals totally make me sick, perhaps something light."

Goren grunted a nod at that.

"What now?" Eames asked.

"They make you sick? I was going to let you hold the barf bag for me."

"We can't both hate hospitals," she said. "When one of us gets shot, who's going to get the other to the hospital if we both hate it?"

"_When_ we get shot? Awful optimistic aren't we, Eames?"

"Occupational hazard. Besides, I think it's more that we've both seen our fair share of hospitals these past few years."

He nodded at that, and then changed the subject. They pulled over to a deli and had their lunch, discussing medical marvels and pulse rates and the first heart transplant.

"In Mississippi? Are you kidding?" Eames asked, wiping a smudge of honey mustard from her chin.

"Well, they used a chimp's heart, and it only beat for an hour… but it happened."

"Where do you come up with all of this useless knowledge?"

"You say that now, but wait until you're on the _other _team on trivia night."

They pulled up into the parking lot of Mount Sinai Hospital and watched as an ambulance brought two young men in on stretchers.

The EMTs chattered quickly to the ER docs. "We've got two Caucasian males, early 20s, both with multiple superficial and deeper lacerations. His BP is holding at 110 over 75, but this patient needs a transfusion, BP dropping to 80 over 50…"

"I take it back," Eames said.

"Take what back?"

"We can both hate hospitals."

They walked up to the front desk and asked for the cardiac ward.

**_Shout out to my home state! They really did use a monkey heart for transplantation... I guess hindsight's always 20/20. Remember, reviews are the fertilizer of the literary garden... or just a feeble attempt to attain commendation for one's efforts. Next chapter up soon!_**


	3. Chapter 3

**_Hey guys! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. I noticed a mistake with the time stamps in the first chapter that I need to clarify. The time for the scene where Darren and Carla Gallagher are in their kitchen *right before the murder, gasp* should read 9:45 pm. They didn't get murdered at the same time Eames showed up. Haven't gotten any questions about it yet, so I thought I'd just correct it right here._**

**_As always, don't own, just borrowed. The plot thickens... as does the banter between the detectives. Enjoy :)_**

Mount Sinai Hospital

Manhattan, New York 3:12 p.m.

Dr. Diana Richmond was everything you could want in a doctor. Thorough, sensitive, yet with a _just the facts, ma'm_ style about her delivery. She quickly withdrew Darren Gallagher's file and addressed the detectives sitting opposite her.

"I had high hopes for a full recovery for Darren. This is just so unfortunate for their family," she said. She tucked a dangling brunette curl behind her ear and picked up a pencil from her desk, using it as a guide as she read down the file.

"Double bypass last May, recovery period stable. Came in the following November, complaining of chronic chest pains. Prescribed meds for angina, and we didn't hear from him again until… three weeks ago."

"Why did he come in three weeks ago?" Goren asked.

"He came in complaining of chest pains again, said the medication wasn't working anymore. We did a chest x-ray and a coronary angiogram, and found a pericardial swelling. It's like an air balloon on the heart muscle, causing increased pressure. And for a man who's had a bypass, that wasn't too comfortable. So myself and our chief cardiothoracic surgeon, Dr. Parsons, operated and reduced the swelling. Recovery was well on schedule, he had just recently been discharged when I heard about this whole… incident."

"The department head and the chief surgeon, both in on a surgery just for swelling? Guess there weren't any severed aortas that day," Eames said.

"Yes, it was a minor surgery, but Mr. Gallagher was a relatively high profile patient. We always want the best on our more… spotlighted patients, even for minor surgeries. You're with Major Case. I'm sure you understand."

"We wanted to know if anything went wrong during the surgery… he was shot deliberately in the heart, like someone wanted to cover something up," Goren said.

"I don't think I like what you're implying," Dr. Richmond said, shifting in her office chair.

"We just have to cover our bases. It says in his file that his heart stopped beating during the bypass. Anything like that happen?" Eames asked.

"No, everything was by the book with his last surgery. The man's heart just simply wasn't in great shape to begin with. You're more than welcome to talk to our OR nurses to verify, or Parsons, if you can catch him."

"Is there a videotape of the surgery we could take a look at?" Eames asked.

"We don't have cameras in all of our OR's yet. Because it was such a minor surgery, we didn't think it necessary to film from the outside. We do have a film from the laparoscopic camera, but it will probably look like a bunch of red and pink mush to you."

"I watch a lot of medical documentaries, so, we'll take a look, just to be sure," Goren said. "Covering our bases and all."

"Alright, check with the nurse's station on the way out." She scribbled a number on a Post-it and handed it to Eames. "They'll get you a copy."

"Thanks," Eames said.

"Who is this you're with?" Goren asked, indicating a picture on her desk. "Husband? You look like you were having fun."

"No, I'm not married. Doctors don't have much time for dating. That's um, me and Dr. Parsons. The surgical departments get together for a picnic in the summer with games and stuff; we'd just won the volleyball match against the orthopedics staff."

"So you two are close?" Eames asked.

"Yes, I'd say so. I mean, we're partners. He's brilliant really. A little unorthodox, and he hardly ever goes home. Well, his apartment's being renovated, but he'll sleep in the on-call room just to be ready for a surgery. You should have seen him with Gallagher on the table. Perfect. He's got full authority in the OR, I was just there for backup."

She got up from her chair, peering at Goren who had ambled into the busy corridor. Eames accompanied her to the door.

"If you need anything else, please call. I can send medical files anywhere you need, but I've got to head out and check on some patients and residents, not to mention my surgical staff. If I don't rein him in, Parsons will start hacking away at a stuffed animal in the pediatric ward. Gotta keep 'em on a tight leash, if you know what I mean."

"You have no idea," Eames said. She gave Goren a look as he wandered down the hall. "Goren, heel!"

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza<p>

Manhattan, New York 6:29 p.m.

"Uh-oh," Eames said.

"Uh-oh, what?"

"Looks like Gallagher had reason to file suit against Parsons."

"Why is that?" Goren asked, crossing to hover over Eames' desktop.

"I Googled him, just to check. See how brilliant this surgeon is." She clicked on the top result. "This article says he made some kind of breakthrough in valve leaflet repair surgery, used some type of grafting heart muscle… I don't get any of that medical jargon." She closed the window and clicked on another article. "Here, it says he was highlighted in _Medical Magnate_ for his work on a biological valve xenograft, where he did something against the advice of a bunch of more experienced surgeons, but it worked."

"I don't see where the uh-oh comes in. This guy does sound brilliant."

"Yeah, brilliantly risky. The consensus in all of these articles is that Dr. Parsons likes to push the envelope in the OR. He's had seven major malpractice suits in the last four years, most of which have been settled. But this one, here," she scrolled back down to an article titled _The Kevorkian of Cardio_. "It claims he let a patient die on the table when the patient's quality of life was an issue."

"So you think Darren Gallagher was about to file another malpractice suit against the good doc and someone shot him to cover it up?" Goren moved and sat on the edge of Eames' desk.

"I'm saying, what with the attention given to the shredding of the heart muscle, there's no way the M.E. could have known if Parsons screwed up in Gallagher's most recent surgery."

Goren nodded in agreement as he and Eames rose to add another name to the murder board.

"Definitely seems like a motive," Goren said.

"You make any sense from the tape of the surgery?" Eames asked.

"Just a bunch of internal organs. The best part was when he cracked the sternum. But it got really bloody there for a bit and I couldn't make out much of what was happening."

"I'm sure Discovery Health would give it four stars. It doesn't help us much though."

"No, not really. I can send it down to Rodgers, but I doubt anything will come of it."

They closed the door to the conference room and added the articles about William Parsons to their growing mountain of paperwork.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Billy. Can you do me a favor?" Dr. Richmond caught Dr. Parsons as he was heading out of a patient's room.<p>

"Yeah, Diana, what do you need?"

"Did you hear about Darren Gallagher?"

"Yeah… I did. Diana, since I wouldn't, you know, you don't think his brother might have—"

"That's just it. I don't know about Frederick Gallagher, but the police came by earlier today, and I just wanted to make sure we were all in the clear. If they ask, I don't know why they would, but could you tell them I was with you on Tuesday night?"

Dr. Parsons raised an eyebrow. "The night of the murders… and, where were you really?"

"Gah, Billy!" She said, slapping him playfully over the shoulder. "I was at _home_, going over _your_ most recent expenditure requests. It's just, being at home, alone, no one to verify… I just, don't want the hospital's name, or for that matter, your name, dragged into this."

"I understand. Thank you Diana. So, after I finished my on-call shift Tuesday we went to your house to go over expense reports?"

"Because…" she let the question linger.

"Because MRI machines don't pay for themselves," Parsons answered.

"That's right." She threw a sweet smile at him as she walked back to her office.

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza<p>

Manhattan, New York 9:42 p.m.

"Hey Eames, come check this out."

The detectives had commandeered the conference room, cluttering it with boxes of files on real estate clients, hospital logs, medical records, and a full murder board.

"What do you see?" Eames asked, setting down her third cup of sugar… um, coffee.

"These are the hospital visitors logs for the week of Darren Gallagher's surgery. All of the visitors have to sign in at the front desk, and then again at the nurses' station of whatever ward they're visiting. Look and see who made a stop by Mount Sinai's cardiac ward."

"Fredrick Gallagher. There's nothing wrong with that. Who wouldn't come see their brother after someone had cracked his ribs in half?"

"It's not the who, it's the when," he said, indicating the sign-in date.

"Fredrick came in two days prior to his brother's surgery?"

Goren nodded. "And it wasn't for a check-up. He didn't check in at any of the nurses stations, but he was on the waiting list to see Dr. Parsons," Goren said, pulling out another sheet from a stack of files. When he did, the papers shifted and Eames' coffee toppled over.

"Darn it! Goren!" She shuffled back around to her side of the table, grabbing some blank paper to sop up the brown on her blouse and the table.

"Oh crap, sorry Eames." He helped her clear the files away, and ran to the bathroom to get a cup of water for her shirt. When he came back in he heard her muttering under her breath as she scrubbed furiously at her blouse.

"Stupid… darn… stain, won't… frickin'… _come out_!" She tossed her hair over her shoulder and let out a frustrated sigh.

"That's some, um, colorful language you've got going there Eames."

She gave him a look that could kill a kitten.

"I let a few choice words slip around Nate last weekend," she explained. "My sister was none too pleased. Said I should work on some _substitutes_, as she put it. Or else I'd have to contribute to the swear jar, which is not in my best interest on a detective's salary."

Goren was smiling as he watched her untuck her shirt and undo the bottom few buttons.

"I'm going to change."

"Eames, you know I'll pay for the dry-cleaning."

"Damn straight you will."

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Darn it!" he heard her say on her way to the locker room.

She came back, five minutes later, hair up with an NYPD t-shirt on. A new cup of coffee was sitting on her side of the table. "So you were saying about the brother…"

"Right, Fredrick Gallagher, we really should pay him a visit. See what he and Dr. Parsons talked about. But I wouldn't wear that shirt."

A dry-erase marker from the murder board somehow sailed across the room and hit him squarely in the forehead. They decided to call it a night.

**_Reviews appreciated, as well as fireworks, patriotism, and George M. Cohan. (Look him up, you know you want to.)_**


	4. Chapter 4

**_Two in one day? Yes, of course, cause it's the first Sunday without... *tears up* I don't want to talk about it. Any way, thanks to everyone who's stuck with this. I hope my amateur take at a crime story isn't scaring people away. Just know, with most stories, it gets better the further in you go. Don't own, never will. But Wolf has enough years in the franchise to be in syndication until the apocalypse. Happy Reading :)_**

Gallagher Realtors

Chelsea 8:30 a.m.

"I was naturally concerned with my brother's health. I wanted to know just what type of surgery Dr. Parsons was getting himself into." Fredrick Gallagher's picture would have been listed under _shrewd_ if looked up in the dictionary. Dressed in black Armani, presumably for the funeral, the early-60s businessman leaned comfortably against his desk, hands in pockets, as Goren and Eames asked questions.

"So you made an appointment just to talk about the surgery? Couldn't Carla have filled you in on the procedure?" Eames asked.

"Carla, God rest her soul, put a little too much trust in people. She didn't know about all those malpractice suits Dr. Parsons had pending. I went in to, _encourage_ his best performance on my brother. No risky maneuvers, no unnecessary procedures. He was half of my business, as well as my brother. I just wanted things done right."

"We spoke with your brother's attorney yesterday," Goren said, picking up a paperweight that looked suspiciously like actual crystal. "He said there was something about a possible malpractice suit coming against the hospital. You know anything about that?" He haphazardly tossed the crystal to his other hand.

Fredrick followed the crystal in Goren's hand with hawk eyes. "As far as I know, the surgery went well. Even had the department head in there to supervise. Unless Darren and Carla knew something I didn't, I don't see why they would sue over the most recent one." Fredrick Gallagher gave Goren a pointed look and he set the crystal down on the edge of an end table.

"And now that your brother has passed, you've gotten access to all of his clients," Eames said.

Gallagher straightened at the statement, folding his arms over his chest. "Yes, I have."

"That's a pretty deep pot to dip in, wouldn't you say?" Eames asked. "Your clients, plus the clients and recommendations you pick up from your brother's business…"

"Not to mention the press," Goren added, as he edged up close beside Gallagher. He was so tall Gallagher was forced to look up. "I mean, your brother, he was the big shot. The one in the papers, eating meals with, who'd you say that Italian girl was Eames?"

"Snooki."

"Right, the… reality stars. Magazine covers. The investment bankers. He got that spotlight." Goren turned to face Gallagher head on. "But, now it's all about you. You're, um, time in the sun, as they say."

Gallagher was getting uncomfortable. He shifted and walked behind his desk, picking up his briefcase and his umbrella. "Look, I know how it must look. But I was never my brother. He could wine and dine those snobs, convince them to get a place they really didn't want. I was the one who did the groundwork. Seeking out condos in obscure locations, calling banks about foreclosed properties, even barking at contractors to finish renovations on time. I was never the seller. I never wanted to be that, and I don't imagine I ever will be."

"So what are you planning on doing with all those extra clients?" Eames asked.

"I imagine I'll lose some. If you haven't noticed, housing market's a bitch. But I'm taking Jackson on to help me out. He's a great people person, just what I need. And, I feel like it's the least I can do, for Darren. He would've wanted me watching our for Jackson." Fredrick Gallagher extended his arm toward the door. "You can talk to Dr. Parsons if you're that concerned. He'll tell you the same thing I told you. Now, if you please detectives…"

Eames and Goren walked out of the office into a chilled New York drizzle.

"Looks like we've got another appointment with the doctor," Goren said.

"Yippee," Eames answered, and she pulled off toward Mount Sinai.

* * *

><p>Mount Sinai Hospital<p>

Manhattan, New York 9:15 a.m.

Goren and Eames walked up to the nurses' station. "We're here to see Dr. Parsons."

"Do you have an appointment?" the nurse asked blandly.

"We're not on the list, but I'm thinking he could squeeze us in," Eames said, flashing the nurse her badge.

"He's with a patient right now, but you can wait in his office. He should be finished in a few minutes. It's 1405, down the corridor on the left."

"Thanks," Eames said.

The pair meandered down the corridor, passing open patient doors along the way. The sounds of ventilators and heart monitors filled the hallway, along with that unpleasant yet obligatory antiseptic scent. Goren reached the office first and walked right in.

"Why Dr. Parsons," he said, addressing a framed picture of the doctor. "Do you mind if we have a look around? No? Wonderful." He plopped down in the desk chair and began sifting through some papers.

Eames went over to his computer desktop and turned it on. "Password protected. Can't get in. Can you check his call logs?"

"I don't see a cell phone. Desk phone doesn't have memory for that."

"Well, what do you have?" Eames asked.

"Patient files, an article on pediatric minimally invasive heart reconstruction, and half a bag of trail mix."

"Anything about his meeting with Fredrick Gallagher?" she asked, moving from behind the desk to view the diplomas on the wall.

"Not yet," Goren said. He looked up and caught the eye of a somewhat inquisitive looking doctor as he sped by the office window. "Why don't we just ask him?"

Seconds later, Dr. William Parsons entered the room, glasses slightly askew with a pile of clipboards tucked under his arm. "Excuse me," he said, setting the boards down haphazardly on a coffee table. A charming, fit man nearing 50, he rose and smiled at both detectives.

"Hi, Dr. William Parsons," he said, extending his hand to Eames. "I hear you two are investigating Mr. Gallagher's murder." He crossed the room to greet Goren, who was still standing behind his desk. "Hope you like that swivel chair, had to claw tooth and nail to get it," he said, grinning.

"Yes, it's much better than the ones we have at the department," Goren answered. "What do you mean 'tooth and nail'?"

"Money matters. Medical equipment doesn't come cheap, and office supplies tend to fall by the wayside in the face of paying for dialysis machines and ventilators. I hope you don't mind if we keep this kinda short, I've got to be in surgery in half and hour." He took a seat in one of the chairs by the coffee table, seemingly unaffected by Goren's possession of his desk.

"Alright then, we'll just jump straight in. Did you have a meeting with Fredrick Gallagher prior to his brother's surgery?" Eames asked.

Parsons tensed ever so slightly at that. "Is he a suspect?"

"A person of interest, at this point. You never answered the question."

"Yes, I did. Meet with him. He was… concerned for his brother's medical condition. He wanted to know exactly what I'd be doing when we were in the OR. I offered him a seat in one of our stadiums, but he said he didn't need to watch."

"Stadiums?"

"Viewing rooms, for the OR's. They're on the second floor, the patient and doctors are on the first, so other surgeons, sometimes family members can observe. Hence, stadium."

"And did you have any other contact with him after the meeting?"

Parson got up and shot a quick glance at his phone. "No, why?"

Goren noticed the hesitation. "We just didn't really understand why he would want to come in, without his brother, for, um…" he checked a note in his binder. "…a thirty minute session just to 'talk' about a minor surgery."

Parsons shook his head and wiped a hand over his face. His energetic demeanor from the beginning of the interview had quickly deflated. "Honestly, I had to sit him down and talk him through the entire procedure. The x-ray and the angio were really blurry, and we couldn't tell exactly what was wrong with his brother's heart. In my expert opinion, I told him it resembled pericardial swelling and explained that procedure to him. He was very agitated, wanted to know everything it could have possibly been if it _wasn't_ swelling, so I had to eliminate all of the possibilities with him. But in the end, it was just like I thought. Went with my gut, and the surgery went off without a hitch."

"Went with your gut?" Goren asked. "You seem to do that a lot, Dr. Parsons."

Parsons' stare turned a bit colder. "It's what good doctors do."

"Yes, well, you are good, I'll give you that. Daring, bold. Experimental, in some of your procedures. What with your malpractice suits pending," Goren said.

"Look," Pasons said, crossing his arms. "Everyone brings up the malpractice suits. Yes, things go wrong in surgery. But I average two major heart surgeries a day. People fly in to have me operate on them. I'm not being cocky, I'm just telling the truth. With odds like that, there are bound to be mess-ups."

Goren focused on his binder but pointed a large finger at Parsons. "Like your mess-up with James Sledge?"

Parsons wheeled on Goren. "That was not a mistake."

"Oh really, well the papers seem to think it was. Called you the, what was it Eames? The _Kevorkian of Cardio_."

"He would have been on a respirator for his entire life… A vegetable! I talked to the family, and him, multiple times. He said he didn't want to come out if he couldn't still go to his grandchildren's baseball games!" Parsons was fuming now. He was agitated, pacing, and Goren stepped right in his path.

"Do you know why we're asking you these questions?"

"Because you like being tools?"

Goren laughed. "No, but that's a first. Darren Gallagher was murdered. You know this. We spoke to Dr. Richmond about it earlier. He was shot you see, Bam! Bam!" Goren held up his thumb and index finger in the shape of a gun. "Right in the heart. So, you see, _Billy_, if someone had made a mistake, two to the chest would be a pretty good cover-up, even with a good medical examiner doing the autopsy."

"Why would I shoot someone over a botched surgery? His recovery was right on schedule! Just released, and, like you so eloquently pointed out, I've got several other suits pending. What's one more? It's not like my reputation would take a hit."

"You say that now, but none of your other suits came from big names like Gallagher," Eames said.

"Look, when did this happen? Tuesday, right? I was on call from eight til eight, then I went over to Diana's to follow up on expenditure reports. I left her house around one in the morning. Tooth and nail, remember?" he spat, gesturing toward his office chair. "Now, if I'm not under arrest, I have to go scrub in. There's an eleven year-old with a valve defect who might be a little disappointed if I don't show." He picked up the top clipboard in the stack and stalked out of the office.

"Defensive much?" Eames said.

"Yes, but not in the traditional sense."

"How do you mean?"

Goren began walking toward the door and they exited the office. "He wasn't very territorial. While we were in his office, he wasn't disconcerted about me being at his desk. Most people, when a stranger is in their personal space, tend to distance themselves. He didn't ask me to move. He didn't really flinch when I got close to him."

"Yeah, I'm used to that 'invasion of personal space' tactic working," Eames chided.

"He was only defensive about his work. He believes in it. To a fault almost. He knows he's good, but he also understands his own fallibility. He's accepted those malpractice suits. Knows he might have made a mistake. If something had gone wrong with Gallagher, I get the feeling he would have owned up to it, whatever it was."

Goren and Eames got on the elevator with a young nurse.

"Three please," she asked.

Eames saw some vials of blood in her hand.

"Do you work in the cardiac ward?" she asked.

"Yeah, sure do. I'm Cynthia Mancini. Gotta run these vials down to the labs though."

"What's your opinion of Dr. Parsons?"

"William? He's amazing. Brilliant, even. Best surgeon I've ever assisted with."

"Brilliant huh? We're hearing that a lot. Does he ever get agitated?"

"Not really. He's really passionate about his patients though. If he ever gets worked up, it's always on their behalf. Never really worries about anything else. That's Diana's job."

"Diana Richmond?"

"Yeah, she's in charge of pretty much everything William's not. Managerial stuff, finding organ donors, brown-nosing board members, all that jazz."

Goren perked up and addressed the nurse. "We're detectives, working on an investigation that Dr. Parsons is helping us with. Has he received any threatening phone calls? Had any unusual meetings with anyone lately?"

Cynthia put her pen to her mouth. "Hmm… He got a couple of calls about three weeks ago that got him really upset. He was yelling about the Hippocratic oath and not being a doctor for hire. Even threatened to call the police. Is that what you're here about?"

The elevator dinged on the third floor.

"Not exactly, we're here looking into the murder of Darren Gallagher," Eames said.

Cynthia's smile drooped. "Mr. Gallagher was murdered?" she asked.

"Yes, last Tuesday. Why? Do you have anything you'd like to tell us?" Goren asked.

The nurse stiffened visibly and made to exit the elevator. "No, it's just… I assisted on his surgery. Sorry he… it was just an interesting surgery." The doors closed on the third floor before she could say anything else.

"Interesting, huh? That's certainly different from the 'without a hitch' we got from Parsons," Eames said.

"Definitely. We're going to need to talk to her again," he said, scribbling her name into his binder.

"So where do we go from here? I don't feel like we're making a whole lot of headway on this one." Eames said.

"Let's see if we can subpoena Parson's phone records. An irritating call from three weeks ago? That's about the time Gallagher went in for surgery. And maybe we can get our hands on the hospital's financials. Both Richmond and Parsons were talking about expenditure reports. Maybe the hospital's in a hole."

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza<p>

Manhattan, New York 10:43 a.m.

"You said hole, I say crater." Eames flipped through a few loose pages in a file, highlighted a number, and passed it to Goren. "That is the amount of debt solely accumulated by Sinai's cardiac ward for the last five years."

"In other words, by Dr. Parsons."

"Exactly. Sure, there are the regular expenses for routine surgeries. But there's also some funds from the hospital that went to settle some malpractice suits out of court, expenses from blood tests, investments in an experimental drug trial, even a charge from an airline getting someone to him."

"He's not the kind to worry about financial matters. He wants what's best for the patient, no matter the cost. Even if the Gallagher's had been planning to sue, I don't think he would have killed them just to save the hospital a hundred thousand dollars. It looks like he goes through that much in a week with all these medical tests." Goren leaned back in his chair and stretched.

"True, he doesn't worry about it. That's Diana's job," she leaned back and stretched too, mirroring his movement. "But someone has to. For example, you remember the Lakewood case? Where we had to hit up that country club upstate as potential new members?"

"Oh, yes. One of my favorite aliases! Rich, eccentric married couple turned bad-ass NYPD like that!" he snapped his fingers for emphasis.

"Yes, well, remember what we had to _wear_ to get in there?" Eames asked, pointing a pencil at him accusatorily. "_You_ somehow managed to convince the department that the $600 Burberry suit you wore to the sting was a justifiable expense. And then who got stuck filling out the expense report? Me. And guess what, we both got docked $150 from our checks at the end of that month."

"That's right we did. But we _both_ got docked. I seem to remember someone coming away with a pair of heels and a dress from that job," Goren smirked.

"It's not like anyone up here could've used them for an op anyway. Unless you'd like to see Mike in a blue halter."

"I'll pass."

"That's what I thought. I'm just pointing out the importance of being money-conscious, no matter if you're running an undercover op or a mechanical heart pump. So, let's just write FINANCES in big black letters on the murder board, shall we?"

The two pushed back from their desks and headed to the conference room.

"I really liked those heels, though," he said.

"Sorry Goren, I'd let you borrow them, but I'm not a size 13."

"I meant on you." She gave him a questioning look as they entered the conference room. "I mean, you almost reached my shoulder that day!"

Somehow, that flying dry erase marker from the previous night found his forehead again.

She sat down as Goren rubbed his temple. "So has that subpoena come through yet? I want to see if Gallagher was the one that called Parsons and got him so riled up." She picked up the phone and called the ADA with an innocent look on her face.

"What?" she asked.

Goren pointed at a red mark on his head.

**_I imagine Eames having a mean arm. Enough to accurately throw a dry erase marker anyway. As always, reviews appreciated, along with doctors, policemen, and the people who make the world go round._**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Working on getting up the whole story by tomorrow-ish, so people can enjoy a *hopefully* intriguing murder mystery if fireworks are in absentia. __We're about halfway there. As always, don't own. USA, you don't know how lucky you were to have these characters. Happy Reading :)_**

Mount Sinai Hospital

12:14 p.m. OR Washroom #5

Dr. Parsons was washing his hands after his operation on the eleven year old. He dried them on a disposable towel and leaned up against the sink as he ran a hand over his harried face. Dr. Richmond burst in seconds later, her tear-stained cheeks red from crying. She locked the door behind her and motioned for Parsons to do the same with the other.

"Diana, what is going on?"

She took a deep breath and looked at the floor. "Billy, I did something bad, Billy…" She was nearly shaking now. Her hands covered her face and her hair was all over the place. She slid down the wall and crumpled in a lump on the washroom floor. "I didn't want… I mean, it was for you and the hospital and… Oh god, Billy, what have I done?"

William Parsons grabbed a towel and wet it. He folded it into thirds and placed it on Diana's forehead. "Diana, you've got to calm down. Look at me," he tilted her head up. "You need to take some deep breaths or you're going to hyperventilate, okay?" He knelt down beside her and put an arm around her shoulder.

"I'm going to need to know what happened, Di. God, I can't believe this. I might can…" he trailed off, and just let her sit in his arms for a few minutes as she steadied her breathing.

"I think I can fix this," he said.

"What? No, Billy, you don't… you don't, _get it_. I actually—"

"Nope, not here. Let's wait til later. We'll go to your office. Talk it out. Like I said, I think I've got it now… I can fix this."

Diana Richmond sniffled into her blazer. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to take Fredrick up on his offer."

"What? Billy, no. You can't, this was for _you_—"

"If everything goes like I think, we'll both be fine. Just breathe," he said, helping her to her feet. "Besides," he grinned, "how often have I been wrong?"

"It's a small percentage, but it's happened before," she said.

"You actually crunched the numbers? You amaze me Diana." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Just, don't talk to anyone again until I see you. Meet me back in your office around two. We'll get this all straightened out, okay?"

"Okay, but I don't think you can just stitch this one back up Billy."

"Maybe not, but I can sure as hell try."

Diana and Billy walked out of the washroom. Diana went back to her office to further compose herself, but Cynthia caught Dr. Parsons on the way to the nurse's station.

"Dr. Parsons, the police were here today."

"I know Cynthia, they were asking me questions about Darren Gallagher."

"I know that now, but… they said you were helping them, and I didn't know it had to do with that, and I might have said something about the surgery…"

Dr. Parsons' already agitated demeanor turned hostile, and he pulled Cynthia into the nearest on-call room. He checked to see if anyone was with them before returning to her.

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing, they were asking about... phone calls. I didn't think it was important."

"What did you say, exactly?" he was calmer now, doing his best not to intimidate her.

"Just that you kept getting those weird calls about three weeks ago where you'd hang up. Then you got that one where you were yelling into the phone. Told them how you were going to call the police, because I thought you _did_ call the police, I thought that was them…" she trailed off, looking lost and young and pitiful with a deer in the headlights stare.

"Okay, okay, that's fine. I don't want you to lie to the police. All of that is very true. What else Cynthia?" his calm was returning, so he kept his voice mellow and his manner professional.

"I just… I didn't know if you'd talked to them about the surgery. All I said was that it was interesting. Not anything else about it, I promise!" his calm had transferred to her. She was leaning back against the door, just staring at the doctor like a pupil to a teacher.

"That's fine Cynthia. Darren Gallagher's murder has nothing to do with the hospital, nothing to do with his surgery. Just keep what happened in the OR to yourself. Pericarditis, remember?"

She nodded.

"If they question you again, be open with them. The last thing I need is half of my surgical staff being brought in for questioning. Just don't mention the procedure, if you can help it." He grinned at her and let her exit the on-call room. He locked the door behind her. Then, he slumped onto one of the cots and pulled out his cell phone.

"Rachel, hi. It's Dr. Parsons… Can you get me the contact info for the Baretti family? I think I've got a slot open for their sister… No, everything's fine. I just need to get in touch with them." He hung up the phone after jotting down the number on a spare prescription pad. He took a deep breath and punched the digits in.

"Mr. Baretti? Dr. Parsons down at Mount Sinai Hospital. Yes… how's Jennifer? Yes, well, I know about your financial situation, and I know how important it is that Jennifer get that shunt put in as quickly as we can… I know your, well, _history_… I think we can come to an agreement and get Jennifer in the OR tomorrow morning. But I need you to do something for me first…"

* * *

><p>10045 West 52nd Street<p>

Hell's Kitchen 1:49 p.m.

Jackson Gallagher hefted two large trash bags from that day's lunch into his hands. He opened the door to the back alley where he tossed them in the dumpster. He leaned against the brick wall, tired from yesterday's double funeral and jonesing for a cigarette. He dug into his pockets for a lighter, only to swear when the disposable Zippo he found was out of lighter fluid.

"Hey man, I got a light." A tall guy in a cotton beanie stepped out from behind the dumpster. He didn't look like an addict, or even a recovering resident. Just a shady guy who happened to be… in an alley… in Hell's Kitchen… at one in the afternoon. Jackson felt a funny tingle on the back of his neck. He'd been in worse situations, but back then he had been too high to notice.

"Um, that's okay," he stammered. "Been trying to quit anyway."

The guy slammed a heavy hand against the brick wall right beside Jackson's head. "I really think you should take it," the guy said, flicking open a silver lighter. "Think of it as a last request." Jackson lit his cigarette as another man stepped out from behind the dumpster, two wooden baseball bats thrown over his shoulder.

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza<p>

Manhattan, New York 2:24 p.m.

"Goren, the subpoena for those phone records finally came through."

Goren looked up from his paperwork that he hadn't really been filling out, grabbing the file that Eames was holding over his desk.

"We were right. That call that nurse Cynthia was on about? Happened three weeks ago, day before Darren Gallagher's surgery. Guess where they traced it to?"

"Fredrick Gallagher's real estate office," Goren said.

"Bingo."

"He'd just met with him the day before, and yet he still needed to talk to him about the surgery? For…" his eyes scanned the page. "…only 12 minutes? And whatever he said had Parsons reciting the Hippocratic oath and threatening police involvement, according to Cynthia."

"Shall we bring the doctor by for a house call?"

"I think we should."

Goren and Eames went to get their coats, but before they could leave, Captain Hannah stepped out of his office.

"Where are you two headed?"

"We're going to bring in Dr. Parsons and shake him up a little. He knows more than he's letting on," Eames answered.

"So I take it you haven't gotten the call about Jackson Gallagher?"

Both Goren and Eames' faces turned grave.

"No, what happened?" Goren asked.

"Two guys came at him in an alley with baseball bats. He's in a coma now at NYU Medical Center. It was really bad. If one of the cooks from the halfway house hadn't come out and stopped it, he'd be dead."

"I don't like how all of the people with access to Darren Gallagher's funds all of a sudden turn up dead or injured," Eames said.

"All except our concerned brother, who's nice enough to visit the surgeon and call repeatedly to his brother's health care adviser," Goren said.

"Do you have enough for a warrant on Fredrick?" Hannah asked.

"We will once this interview is over," Goren said.

With that, he and Eames walked to the elevator and drove to Mount Sinai.

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza<p>

Interrogation Room B, 3:07 p.m.

"Doctor, doctor," Goren said, dragging his seat to face opposite Parsons. "I have to say, we're just sick of this 'playing dumb' routine." Eames came in and slammed the door behind her, then took her seat beside Goren.

Parsons looked much worse for the wear. His crisp scrubs from that morning were rumpled, his face stoic, and his once neatly combed salt and pepper cut had funny licks sticking up in odd directions from his scrub cap.

"I'm not playing dumb, I just… I just don't need to get in any more trouble, okay?"

"Trouble? What trouble? From what we understand, you know you've been a bad boy." Eames started dropping each different file for all of his malpractice suits one by one on the table. It was a formidable stack.

"But that's not even what we're worried about," Goren said. "You see these? You're a smart guy, went to medical school. What do you think these are?"

"Phone calls?"

"Exactly! Eames, I told ya he was smart." Goren got up and dragged his chair over to Parsons' side. He didn't sit, but instead leaned over the man, running a finger over the records. "You see that, that's your office number, right?"

"Yes."

"And that's your cell."

"Correct."

"Now, here's the funny part," he said, finally taking his seat. "Who's this number here? The one that called you, how many times Eames?"

"Fourteen."

"Fourteen times in three days! And not just to your office. To your cell, too. Now I don't know about you, doc, but that looks to me like someone who might want to be planning something, am I right?"

"Now hold on just a minute…" Parsons said.

"Let me back track," Goren said, leaning so close to Parsons he could see the pores on his face. "You're a smart guy, I've said this. Probably seen a million GSW's to the chest in the ER. You know about silencing shots, about collecting your brass rounds, probably even how to hold a gun."

"No, you're, you're wrong… that's not what—"

"And your buddy, Freddy Gallagher? Probably promised you a nice payout, right? Enough to settle your suits out of court? See, with his brother gone, he was about to get plenty. Enough to make a nice endowment to the hospital. To the surgeon who worked so hard to save his brother. Am I right, Billy?"

"No!" Parsons scrubbed a hand across his face. "Yes, I mean, no, you're not all wrong, but that is not what happened!"

"Then why don't you clear it up for us," Eames said. "Tell us why you had fourteen calls from Fredrick Gallagher for three days leading up to his brother's surgery."

Parsons put his head in his hands and took an audible breath. "He was blackmailing me." Parsons violently pushed his chair back and stood. "Fine, okay, he was blackmailing me. He wanted me to… he wanted there to be an, an _accident_ on the table in the OR." He started his nervous pacing again. "I wouldn't do it, so he kept calling. Offered to pay me, not the hospital. When I wouldn't do it, he said he'd talk to the papers about the Sledge incident. Full disclosure. I, you see, the Sledge case wasn't the only time I'd…"

"It wasn't the only time you'd purposefully let a patient die, right?" Goren prodded.

"Yes," Parsons' pacing slowed. "There were two others. Magda Carlstein and Holden Jeffers. I was able to pass off both of them as just botched surgeries, but I'd talked to the families. In both cases, it was a quality of life issue. One had already had brain damage, and the family said she was in strict opposition to prolonging life when in a vegetative state. Jeffers, he was older. Ready. Said he didn't want to go through more surgeries, which is what I would have had to do, but his constitution was too weak to sustain that much trauma. Jeffers came from a rich family, he…"

"The Jeffers are in the list of Gallagher's clientele records," Eames offered.

"That's it. That must have been how Fredrick Gallagher knew about Holden." Parsons stopped pacing and sat back down in his chair. "Look, I've always wanted what was best for my patients. That goes for Magda, Holden and Darren. I would never let someone die if I hadn't spoken with family or, or the patient, or someone…" he locked eyes with Goren. "I am not a murderer. I save lives. I told Fredrick to stop calling. That he could go to the papers even if it meant losing my license. When I told him that last time that I was going to call the police, he stopped calling. If you want to look into anyone, you go check out Fredrick Gallagher. He's got enough money to get the mayor killed."

Eames and Goren collected the files and went into the observation room on the other side of the glass where Hannah was waiting.

"So, what do you think?" Hannah asked.

"He's got an answer for everything," Eames said. "Which means he's either telling the truth or he's a brilliant liar."

"He's really shaken up over the surgeries, over the blackmail, all of it. Whatever happened, it's put him through significant stress. I don't think he had anything to do with the murders. He was willing to lose his license so he wouldn't have to kill anyone."

"Besides, with the attack on Jackson, medical motive is practically shot," Eames added.

"I believe that little speech on his part is enough for a search warrant for Fredrick Gallagher. Besides the pillow and the gun, put his financials on there. We need to see if he paid off somebody to do it for him. I don't see Freddy pulling the trigger himself," Hannah said.

"Why don't we bring in a whole unit?" Eames said. "For some reason, I like seeing the scum of the earth squirm."

**_Reviews are appreciated, as are smiles, compliments, and general kindness to your fellow man. _**


	6. Chapter 6

**_I've had a few inquiries as to my shipping status and if the last scene from 'Knit Cap' would have any effect on this story. This is a case file, so that is the primary focus, but we've seen the detectives use their personal experiences to get confessions before. So, all I can say is read on to find out. But yes, I've been on the ship since 'Wee Small Hours.' (If that tells you anything). Happy Reading :)_**

East 69th Street

Fredrick Gallagher Residence

Upper East Side, 6:15 p.m.

"What the _hell_ is this?" Fredrick Gallagher stormed into the foyer of his home, waving a piece of paper in his hand like a flag in a ticker-tape parade. "I have the cops show up at my office with a search warrant, and then they tell me there are more damn police officers at my house! I want to know what the hell you think you're doing."

"That would be our job, Mr. Gallagher," Eames returned. "And really, you shouldn't swear so much. Don't you have grandchildren?"

Fredrick Gallagher was fuming. Goren came out of the nearest hallway, latex gloves holding a plastic bag.

"Mr. Gallagher, we took you up on your offer, speaking with Dr. Parsons, that is," he said. "His was a very, enlightening story. Something about blackmailing him to kill his brother, would you know anything about that?"

Gallagher was caught. The color drained from his face and he started slowly inching toward the front door.

"Nuh-uh, that's not a very smart move Mr. Gallagher. If you leave now, you'll miss the show part of show and tell," Eames said, as two uniforms blocked Gallagher's exit.

"What do I have right here?" Goren asked, unfurling the plastic bag he held. "CSU found it out back, in the dumpster to this complex. This is a .38 glock. And in our line of work Mr. Gallagher…" Goren handed the gun over to Eames and went to cuff Fredrick. "… that is what we call a sure sell. Fredrick Gallagher, you are under arrest for the murders of Darren and Carla Gallagher. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say…"

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza<p>

Interrogation Room A, 7:48 p.m.

Eames walked in the interrogation room. She set some files and a notepad down as she pulled her seat beneath her. Luke Turner was seated beside Fredrick Gallagher, expensive suitcase taking up half the table.

"Detective," Mr. Turner began, "my client will admit to the blackmail. He says he did intend to blackmail Dr. Parsons, and he'll deal with the ADA on an _attempted_ murder charge, but he insists he did not kill his brother and sister-in-law."

"Funny how most people insist that they haven't killed someone when they're in here," Eames said.

"No! I didn't shoot anyone, this is all a mistake," Fredrick said.

"Do you have a key to your brother's brownstone, Mr. Gallagher?"

"Don't answer that," Turner said.

"Why? I'm going away anyway, might as well put everything out there. Yes, I have a key. Why does that matter?"

"There were no signs of forced entry, which means the killer either had a key, or it was someone they knew. Which makes you, unfortunately, guilty on both counts."

Goren suddenly swung the door open abruptly so it hit the wall. Both Turner and Gallagher jumped in their seats, but Eames remained relaxed, eyes on both suspect and attorney.

"Nice of you to join us detective," Turner said.

"Oh, yes of course. I hope you'll, um, forgive my tardiness. I just got back from ballistics."

"And?" Eames said.

"This does not look good for you, Freddy," Goren said.

"It's Fredrick, and I have no idea how that gun got there."

"You see, this is where I'm a little confused. We've got a star witness who'll testify that you blackmailed him to kill your brother. We have the gun that was used to kill your brother, in _your_ dumpster, and we have Jackson Gallagher on a gurney at NYU with no claim to his father's fortune. Do you see where I'm going with this Fredrick?"

Fredrick Gallagher started rubbing his temples. He looked at Turner, who just offered a shrug in return. "Look, I said I'd take the blackmail wrap. It was attempted. I didn't actually shoot him."

"Right, but you wanted him dead," Goren said.

"Yes! Okay, yes, I wanted him dead. I have some gambling… issues. I've lost a lot recently. Asked him for a loan. That haughty, insincere—"

"This really isn't helping your case," Eames said.

"I know! I know I'm going to prison. I know this. But not for something I didn't do. I wasn't even in town Tuesday. You can check."

"Fine, where were you?"

"At a roulette table at Ceasar's in Atlantic City. Check the security tapes."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't have hired someone to do it for you. Given them the key, checked out of town for the night to alibi yourself, it happens all the time," Eames said.

"I didn't! Check everything. I'm in so much debt I had to ask my brother for a loan. There's no way I'd have enough to arrange a professional hit."

"Not professional, but amateur. You see, if it was professional, you wouldn't be here right now," Eames said.

Gallagher wasn't hysterical, just… hopeless. He kept throwing pointed looks at Turner, hoping for some suggestion.

"You're in deep shit, Fredrick. And you've already said too much. Best we can hope for is a good deal with the ADA."

Goren and Eames stood to leave, followed by Turner.

"Wait!" Gallagher said. "What about the gun?

"What about the gun?" Goren asked.

"Aren't there like, fingerprints you can look for?"

"Outside was wiped clean."

"What about, um… registration? I don't own it."

"You could've bought it off the street. Sorry Mr. Gallagher." Goren shut the door and they left the interrogation room.

"So which theory are we going with?" Hannah asked once the team had returned to their desks.

"We'll call the resort, check out his alibi. I bet he'll be there, on tape, like he says he is. But I still think he arranged it. No matter how much debt he's in, he could have taken it out of their business fund. People will do plenty for a wad of cash," Eames said.

"Some things just aren't adding up for me though," Goren said.

"What's that?" Hannah asked.

"If it was a hit, why would he have the gun in his dumpster?"

"We don't know that it was a hit yet, Bobby. And if it was, he could've given the gun to whoever did it. When the job was finished, the killer might have brought it back, especially if it was a novice."

"And what about Jackson? He likes his nephew. He was going to give him a job at the firm. I don't think he'd have him beaten unconscious, he knows the boy had next to nothing. Plus, he would have been in control of the funds for another two years pending Jackson's evaluation."

"Go over his financials," Hannah instructed. "See if there's a large cash withdrawal, wayward check, anything to suggest a hit."

"Yes sir."

"Yes sir."

After Hannah left, Goren and Eames began doling out the files that consisted of Fredrick Gallagher's financials.

"Late night number two?" Goren asked.

"Late night number two," Eames agreed.

"Coffee? Before Starbucks closes up shop?" Goren went to grab his coat.

"All these years and you still have to ask? That's cute." Eames said.

"I'll leave you to it then."

"Bobby!" Goren stopped and turned when he was near the elevator. "Don't think I don't know you're hoping I find something before you get back, that way you don't have to look through these records."

"Guilty. Which is why I'll get you a… not a coffee, a signature drink. Grande white mocha okay?"

"Venti."

"Venti? Eames, you'll be bouncing off the walls."

She pushed the stack of files on his desk into his chair.

"Venti it is," he said, as he turned to the elevator.

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza<p>

Manhattan, New York 10:32 p.m.

Eames rubbed her eyes as she set her last folder aside. She had caught Goren dozing twice that night as they checked and rechecked and double-checked all of Fredrick Gallagher's financials, including those of Gallagher Realtors. She shut her eyes and leaned back as far as her chair would go.

"Okay, you're right. He didn't arrange the hit. I can't find one penny out of place. Even his cashed checks have the names of his bookie in the memo line."

Goren didn't respond.

"Goren?" Eames looked up. His head was resting on his chin, eyes drooping. "Goren… Bobby!"

"Yes, right, $1500 to Staples for paper shipment in bulk, last Wednesday—"

"Goren, you can stop now, unless you've found something?"

"Uh, no. Sorry not yet," he said. He sighed, glancing toward the two remaining files on his desk, wondering how hers disappeared so much faster than his. "You go on, I'll finish up and let you know in the morning."

"There's two, we'll split them."

Before he could hand her the top one, her desk phone rang.

"Eames," she said. "Yeah, still here… Yes, Detective Goren, too…Taking a look at some screwy financials… You found what?" Pause. Goren suddenly looked much more alert. "Okay, great. Was there a match?" Another pause. "Hmm, and you're sure… And you found what about the pillow stuffing? Yeah, let me grab a pen…Alright, thanks so much Steven. Have them send up the report and the gun in the morning, would you? No, the morning's fine. Thanks again."

She hung up and met Goren's expectant look. "That was the lab. Gun was wiped clean, like CSU found at the dumpster, but not the magazine."

"They get a print?"

"A thumb and index. They put it up against Gallagher's and no match. It wasn't consistent with his prints at all. Didn't match anything in the system either."

Goren's face was a mix between puzzled and contemplative. "This is starting to look better for Gallagher," he said.

"Yeah, but not so good for us. We've lost our main suspect. No money for a hit, no fingerprints on the smoking gun. Plus, they matched the stuffing from the pillow to a manufacturer upstate that deals specifically in hypoallergenic textiles. For people who have allergies and stuff."

"Like at a hospital?"

"Just like at a hospital. Do you think we're looking at a setup?"

"Someone setting up a guy who actually wanted the deceased killed?" Goren ran a hand through his hair. "It's really good, like really, really good. There will always be deniability, because the would-be murderer has copped to an attempted kill. It's ingenious, or resourceful or—"

"Brilliant?" Eames asked.

"Right, brilliant." Goren got up and started shoving papers into his binder. "You up for a visit to the evidence log?"

"Evidence log? We've still got everything from the Gallagher search."

"I want to see if there was anything left from Jackson's attack. I've got a theory."

"Of course you do." Eames downed the rest of her coffee, her second after the mocha, and followed Goren to the elevator.

"Who was that that called? I didn't know the labs were open this late." Goren asked.

"Steven Nettles. You know him, the young lab tech. He just wanted to finish up with the stuff from today because he said they'd be running forensics on a few cold cases tomorrow."

"Right…"

"What does that mean? 'Right'."

"And he wanted to know if I was still here? Wanted to 'run that right up' to Detective Eames, huh?"

Eames rolled her eyes. "He's 25, Goren."

"So that would make you a, what is it? Cougar, right?"

Eames' jaw dropped just slightly. She stared at Goren like a… well, like a cougar stares at a cowering fawn. Her mouth was tight when she spoke.

"Unless you want to get _mauled_, Detective, you will refrain from calling me that again."

In the years to come he used the words panther, mountain lion, lynx and ocelot, but never cougar.

* * *

><p>One Police Plaza<p>

Interrogation Room A, 1:02 a.m.

"I want a lawyer."

"I'm sure you do," Goren said. He sat across from their suspect, laced his fingers together and set them on the table.

"Would you like to know why we brought you in, Mr. Baretti?" Goren asked.

"I'd like to know why you couldn't have waited until morning." Baretti looked like hell. His hair was mussed and his eyes bloodshot; he wore a shirt that reeked of cigarettes and burnt cabbage. "Or at least why I couldn't have the other detective. Easier on the eyes than you."

"That she is Paul, that she is. You see Paul, can I call you Paul?"

"You can call me Tinkerbelle if it gets me out of here faster."

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen," Goren said, standing. "We've got this attack on a pretty good kid that we don't know what to do with," Goren said, tossing photos from Jackson Gallagher's beat-down onto the table. "This guy's name is Jackson Gallagher. You know him?"

"Doesn't look familiar."

"It might help if you actually looked at the picture." Goren shoved it in Baretti's line of vision.

"Never seen him."

"Hmm, that's funny, because we got a witness that puts you and your brother outside this guy's workplace right after he got the crap beat out of him."

"I'd love to meet him."

"Jackson? Sorry, he's in a coma."

"I meant the witness."

"Ah, yes. The phrase 'when pigs fly' jumps to the front of my mind. But let me tell you Paul, I'm not even worried about Jackson," he said, sliding to sit on Baretti's side of the table.

"Then what the hell am I doing here?"

"You've got a sister, right?"

The change in topic caught Baretti a little off guard. "Yeah… a half-sister."

"Jennifer? She's your dad's daughter. Pretty young girl in a family full of boys."

"Right… what's it to you?"

"Must have been nice to have your sister with you when your dad got put away. Even with all her health issues. It was a, um, heart defect, right?"

"Do you enjoy asking questions you already know the answers to?"

Goren grinned, but continued. "I understand you've been in a bit of a financial pinch since your dad got sent upstate. Lost a lot of business when the head of the family's out of commission."

"We get by okay."

"Judging from the slop house I pulled you out of tonight, I believe that is an overstatement."

"Look, what do you want?"

Goren flipped through a few more pages. "You know him?" he asked, placing a picture of Dr. Parsons on the table. Goren saw Baretti hesitate enough to push.

"Cause here's the problem. Follow me, if you will." He spun from Baretti's side of the table and ran a hand from left to right over the photos. "See, we think whoever beat the hell out of _this _guy…" he held up a picture of Jackson. "…had something to do with these two." He waved his hand over crime scene photos of Darren and Carla Gallagher. "And on top of that, we think _he_" he pointed a large finger at Parsons' picture. "… is pulling the strings in this little puppet show."

"Then why don't you talk to him?" Baretti said, laying his own grimy finger on Parsons' picture.

"Do you know what this is?" Goren pulled a small silver lighter in an evidence bag out of his pocket. He pulled on two latex gloves as he removed the lighter from the bag. "It's a really nice one. I'd take it for myself, but I've been trying to quit," he said, flipping the lighter top on and off. "See it's got your name engraved on it, right there…" he said, pointing to the bottom. "Have you ever seen this lighter before? And think hard about the science of fingerprinting before you answer."

Baretti's face turned to stone.

"Yeah, it's mine. Musta dropped it."

"Do you know where you dropped it?"

"No."

"Well, CSU found it in the alley where Jackson Gallagher had his skull cracked with a baseball bat." He slammed his hand down on the table while holding the lighter in his other. He lit it, and then shut it once more. His voice was steel.

"And your sister, Jennifer. I hear she's doing really well. Up in a private recovery room at Mount Sinai. Set for release in two days. Came across some money for a surgery?"

Baretti didn't answer.

"This doesn't require a huge mental leap Paul. We have enough, you know we do, to subpoena some phone records. Find out who made a call for this attack. But Jennifer, she's going to need someone to take care of her once she gets out of the hospital." Goren flicked the top off and lit the lighter. The flame glowed.

Baretti finally met Goren's gaze.

"What do you want?"

"You cop to the attack. Give us Parsons, and we won't charge your brother. Let him stay at home to care for your sister. This offer is good until…" Goren looked at his watch. "1:30. I'm tired and don't plan on waiting for you to mull it over." He started collecting his things. When he reached for the picture of Parsons, Baretti slammed his hand over it.

"Fine. I'll take the deal." Baretti grabbed the lighter off the table and lit the picture of Dr. Parsons on fire.

**_*dramatic strings music here* Dum, dum, dum... Reviews appreciated, as well as ice cream, puppies, and other positive things we find lacking in the L&O universe. _**


	7. Chapter 7

**_Coming up on my favorite part of the episode... the confession. But it's CI, so things might not come off just super-smoothly. Remember how I said Goren and Eames sometimes use their own experiences to get the bad guy? Yeah, well, let the shippy-ish-ness begin! Happy Reading :)_**

**_Don't own, Wolf does, yada yada..._**

Mount Sinai Hospital

OR #4 Cardiac Ward, 11:14 a.m.

"Hello, Dr. Richmond?" Eames entered the OR where Diana Richmond was busy turning equipment on and off. "What are you doing?"

"Just checking equipment conditions. Don't want any faulty electrodes when we're about to send 100 Joules to someone's ventricles," she jotted a number down on her clipboard. "What can I do for you detective?"

"We just wanted to let you know that we've arrested Fredrick Gallagher. I'm sure you know about him and Dr. Parsons… the blackmail, I mean."

"Yes, Billy told me about it. I wish he had confided in me earlier. I probably could have done something."

Eames crossed to stand near the operating table, facing Dr. Richmond.

"There is something you could do for us," Eames said.

Diana Richmond looked up at her. "I thought you said you arrested Mr. Gallagher?"

"Yes, we did. He wanted his brother's fortune just to settle some gambling debts. But we have to eliminate all other possibilities for trial. Our ADA is a real stickler. Wants to clear everyone who had contact with the Gallaghers around the time of their murders so the defense can't offer an alternate theory of the crime. We just need a quick fingerprint check and you'll never see us again."

Diana Richmond clicked a machine on and turned a knob far to the right. "I… don't think I can come with you right now, I'm a little busy."

"I can do it right here. I've got the ink pad and paper," Eames said, reaching for her pocket. "The worst you'll have is a black thumb."

"No… I'm sorry, I just—" Diana reached for a long, thin rod, about a foot and a half in length. She shuddered. "You know, don't you?"

Eames nodded. "We just finished searching your office. Why did you keep the wedding rings?"

"I was going to return them. Put them on their graves," Diana stammered. "I never wanted to do this to them."

"Diana, we found fingerprints on the gun. When we take you in you know yours will be a match," Eames stepped closer to her, voice calm. "You're going to need to come with me,"

"And Billy? What about him?"

"My partner's getting him."

"Will he be arrested?" Diana asked, sliding her finger up and down the rod.

"Diana, you know he will. Jackson Gallagher is in a coma."

"He didn't… it wasn't him, it was—" her eyes were glistening with tears.

"Look, Diana, I don't want to have to get the cuffs out while you're at work, but you really need to come with me," Eames said. She reached behind her back and got her cuffs, just in case.

"No, no, this is wrong… this is all _wrong_," she choked. Tears were leaking from her eyes, but she wasn't hysterical. She took a sweeping look around the OR; then, she shoved the rod at Eames' neck. "Stay still," Diana said.

"What are you doing?" Eames reached up to the rod, but winced as Diana shot a few Joules of electricity into her neck. She clamped her jaw down and doubled over in pain, the shock vibrating all the way down through her feet. The metal handcuffs in her hands didn't help much either.

Diana kept the rod positioned securely to her neck, giving Eames an extremely limited range of motion. "I'm not going with you… I'm getting Billy, and we're leaving. Handcuff yourself to the table."

Eames hesitated and tried to talk her down. "You need to think this through, my partner's already got Dr. Parsons, okay? You need to—" Bzzzz. This time she collapsed, her scorched hand starting to twitch.

"This is on one of the lowest settings, but I can charge it enough to make you lose consciousness. Give me your gun," Diana said, lowering herself so the defibrillator could still touch Eames' exposed skin. "Now cuff yourself."

* * *

><p>Mount Sinai Hospital<p>

Dr. William Parsons' Office, 11:14 a.m.

William Parsons was looking at his computer screen when Goren came in.

"Detective," he said. "I understand you arrested Fredrick for Darren Gallagher's murder."

"You got it half right," Goren said, taking a seat opposite his desk.

"What?"

"Attempted murder. He didn't actually do it." Goren gave him a knowing look.

Parsons turned his face from the screen to Goren. He took a deep breath and shoved some papers into his desk drawer. "So I guess I'll need to be coming with you, then," he said, standing and unbuttoning his lab coat.

"You sure give us an awful lot of credit, don't you?"

"I'm not an idiot, Detective."

"No, you're not. And like you said earlier, I don't think you're a murderer either."

"You don't know what I did and didn't do," Parsons spat.

"I know you covered up a screwy surgery from a year ago," Goren returned. Parsons stood and crossed to the front of the desk, hands in his pockets.

"It's amazing what nurses will tell you when you throw words around like 'conspiracy to commit' and 'revoked license' and, my personal favorite: 'prison'."

"So what did Cynthia tell you?" Parsons asked.

"She said the whole reason Darren Gallagher came back in the first place was because you left a surgical cloth _inside_ of him. Caused the chest pains and resulted in the surgery three weeks ago. You see…" Goren stood to meet Parsons on eye level. "You really did think it was swelling. You hadn't realized what you'd done until you got in there and saw a wet, festering, infection-infused surgical cloth underneath his beating heart."

Parsons didn't look away.

"But you're a doctor. A good one. Not just skilled, you adhere to the code. The Hippocratic oath. You take it seriously. Or at least you did." Goren began rocking back and forth on his feet as Parsons dropped his gaze. "So you told them, post-op. The Gallaghers. You told them that you had made a mistake. That you were, extremely _sorry_ that you had caused them so much pain. But they didn't care, did they? Even after you apologized, after you _owned up_ to your mistakes. They were still going to file suit."

"They wouldn't even consider—"

"I know! After all, you fixed him. It was a cloth for god's sake. It's not like you nicked an artery." Goren bent ever so slightly to get Parsons to look at him. "You told Diana. And that was the last straw, wasn't it? A high profile patient like Darren Gallagher, suing over a rookie mistake by one of the most renowned surgeons in Manhattan. The press would have a field day."

"Diana didn't know, it wasn't her—"

"Come on Billy, of course she knew!" Goren placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "She was in the operating room, she was the one who fielded the malpractice cases, all because of you! You didn't even know how much debt you'd caused, because she took care of you." He shook Parsons, just slightly. He could see that the doctor had the sheen from tears in his eyes.

"You're the cutter, the surgeon. You're brilliant!" Goren said. "But Diana… she knew what this would do to you. Her partner, her best friend," he said, picking up the same picnic picture Diana had in her office off of Parsons' desk. He handed it to Parsons. "She _loves_ you. She would do anything for you. Even kill."

Parsons was staring at the picture. He ran a finger over Diana's face, smiling at the memory of lifting her up in a bear hug.

"She got me the job here. Eight years, I've been in charge here. Eight years she's had my back. I've operated with her some, worked on projects. You know we built a wing together dedicated solely to pediatric heart defects? It's just around the corner," he said, never taking his eyes off the picture. "But you're wrong," he said, finally looking up. "I shot Gallagher. I knew the suit would ruin my rep, probably get me fired. I'd already cost the hospital millions."

"Right motive, wrong person," Goren said. "That could be true, but we've got some hospital video of you in the cafeteria at nine o'clock on Tuesday. Your apartment's under renovation now, right?"

Parsons nodded.

"Which would explain why you hit the on-call bunks at ten and don't come out until the following morning. Most people would die for an alibi like that."

Parsons rubbed a hand over his eyes, looking defeated. "Can I just go see Diana, before you take her?"

"You can see her at the station."

"What? God, what now? You just said I had an alibi."

"For the murders, but you're looking at a conspiracy charge in the assault of Jackson Gallagher, as well as accessory after the fact for Darren and Carla."

Parsons watched as two uniformed officers arrived outside his office door.

"You see, we found Paul Baretti last night. Had a great talk. And we came and visited his sister in recovery this morning before we found you. You used your leverage as a surgeon, probably told the insurance company you were working pro bono, doing a charity case for an inner city girl, Jennifer Baretti, when it was really payment for the assault on Jackson. _You_ tried to make it look like his uncle wanted him killed, that way we'd take our focus off the hospital."

Parsons sat heavily on his desk as a tear rolled down and got lost in his stubble. "Diana came to me… the morning after she did it. She was hysterical. Said she never wanted to work without me. She said she'd thought about quitting, but then where would we be? She told me how she got the gun off the street, went to their house, told them she wanted to check on Darren, apologize again for the upset. They just let her in. Nine o'clock at night and they let her in," he said, wiping the tear away. "She asked me to alibi her, and I did, of course… because…"

"You love her, too."

"Yeah… I guess I do. I mean, I hired someone to beat up a kid, just so she could get away with it. While I was in interrogation with you, I told her to go throw the gun in Fredrick's dumpster, so they could trace it back to him. I planned everything for her. I broke… I broke my oath for her. I harmed, to help. I… hurt him to help _her_. Is that it?" he asked vaguely. "Is that what love is?" he turned, looking at Goren expectantly.

Goren shook his head and motioned to the two uniforms standing outside the door. They came in and started to cuff Parsons.

"No," Goren said. "Love doesn't delight in evil, and it doesn't put twenty-six year-olds into irreversible comas."

Parsons turned back to Goren. "I never told them to kill him. I just needed it to look bad."

"That's the trouble with hiring mob members," Goren said. "They can get a little carried away." The uniforms escorted Parsons down the hall to the elevator as the nurses watched, a sea of confusion and fear on their faces. Goren walked the opposite direction to find Eames. She was supposed to have brought Diana to Parsons' office ten minutes ago.

**_Cliffhanger... but don't worry. I'll actually get the last chapter up today. And I apologize, the shippyness comes in the NEXT (and final!) chapter. Reviews appreciated, as are stars, NASA, and scientists. (Went star gazing after fireworks last night)._**


	8. Chapter 8

**_So here it is, the final chapter. Thanks to everyone who's taken the time for a multi-chapter story. As I said, I tried to keep it as much like an actual episode as possible, which is why I tired to stay out of the character's heads_**. **_This is what I would have wanted to see in the finale. It's not exactly ambiguous like 'Knit Cap', but working it in through an actual case is how I would of wanted a possible B/A ending. Don't own. _**

**_Happy Reading :)_**

Mount Sinai Hospital

OR #4, Cardiac Ward 11:30 a.m.

Diana Richmond was pacing. The nervous pacing of a caged animal, the kind at the circus that kids throw food at just to agitate. She kept the defibrillator in her hand, clutching it like a stress ball. She was muttering something about bail, plane tickets, and Honduras.

"You can… put that thing, uh, away. It's not like I'm… going anywhere," Eames coughed out. Her hands were red and sweltering from the shock; she'd had a hard time getting the cuff on her wrist and in the slit on the side of the metal table. She didn't cinch them tight, and Diana didn't check, but the muscle convulsions from the shocks put her at a significant disadvantage.

"But this really doesn't help you, Diana."

"You don't know!" Diana wheeled around after setting the internal defibrillator rod back into its place. "You don't know, what it's like to work with someone… everyday. Going to bat for that person, because he can do _good_. And then all the board members, all they're concerned with is the bottom line. How much money is he making? How much is he costing us? Just forget the fact that he performed _life-changing_ surgeries on kids in Latin America."

Diana sagged full body against one of the surgical tables that held instruments. Her hands were covering her face as the tears came, a steady flow. Eames had hit a nerve.

"You went to bat for him, against the administration?"

"All the departments had their quarterly reviews last month. Everything in cardio was fine, except for Billy's cases. He'd put the department in debt single-handedly. They told me one more screw-up, one additional expense, and he was gone! What was I supposed to do? The Gallaghers wouldn't think of pulling the suit. They were too proud. And the press… oh god. He'd never be able to operate again."

She slumped even further on the table, the wheels attached to the bottom rolling forward slightly. Eames had been working at her cuffs during Diana's almost-confession, but her hands were still too burned to do much good. She needed to connect with this woman. Needed to get the rest out of her. She needed to pull a Bobby.

"Hey, Diana." Eames leaned significantly to the left from her sitting position on the operating table, trying to catch Diana's eye. "Diana, look at me."

Diana removed her hands from her face.

"You say I don't know what it's like. What it's like to… support someone, in the face of adversity. To put it kindly, you and Dr. Parsons don't have anything on me and my partner."

"What do you… You don't know, you're detectives… you don't—"

"Eleven years," Eames said.

"What?"

"Eleven years. That's how long me and Go— Bobby, me and Bobby have worked together. Late night stakeouts, early morning calls, family emergencies, everything. Trust me, it's hard. To just suddenly be without that person. I couldn't do anything without him. I'd… I would, I would sacrifice for him. I'd give it all up for him. Just like you did for Billy."

Diana's tears had stopped. "So you know," Diana said, her voice on the edge of desperation. "You have to. To work so closely with someone, you'd do _anything_ for them. I had to stop Darren from filing suit." Diana pushed the rolling table out of the way and went to where Eames was sitting.

"So you bought the gun…"

"I got it at a pawn shop. Told them I was a doctor doing research on GSW's. I showed them my credentials and they let me get it without a permit."

"And you came back here, got a pillow from one of the rooms…" Eames prodded.

"The places on the West Side are just so close together. Anyone could have heard."

"And you took some jewelry, made it look like a robbery."

"I don't know why I took the rings," she said. "I had a ring stolen from me once. I took it off to wash my hands at a restaurant. There were people filing in and out, and when I looked down, it was gone. I just… I've never been married. Never got my own engagement ring. Working woman, male-dominated field. I don't know what… I was going to take them back. Mail them, to their lawyer or something. Put them on their graves, after this mess was over. They really loved each other… she fawned over him in the surgical prep room. I just wanted—"

"You wanted what they had."

"I could never be with him. Billy was so... focused. There were moments, though, moments when he would just.. stare at me. Late night meetings, times I thought we were going to... I don't know," Diana kept rambling, talking to Eames like two girlfriends over a deli lunch.

"You couldn't tell anyone, not even each other. You were too afraid to mess up what you had," Eames said.

"Right… plus, the hospital has rules. Administration mixing with attending physicians; it's, it's not like they let everyone around here sleep with each other all the time. That's a serious breach of conduct."

By this time, Eames had managed to get the cuff off of her wrist and Diana away from the defibrillator. Her gun was still across the room, but she'd managed to get Diana within reaching distance.

"You didn't want anyone to know what had happened during the surgery. You made sure to hit his heart."

"I had to. If anyone had opened Gallagher up again, they would have seen he never had any swelling; then there would be an investigation, and it would have all come back to Billy. I couldn't let him go. He'd be blacklisted in every surgical hospital in the nation."

"You did it because you love him," Eames locked eyes with Diana. She slowly inched her fingers toward Diana's wrist.

"Yeah," she sighed. "I never told him, but… You get it. Just like... Just like you love your partner, right?"

Click.

Eames had her cuffed to the table. It took Diana a minute to realize she was immobile, but she didn't have the strength to fight like the first time around. She wilted, collapsing to the floor.

Eames pulled out her cell phone and hit the speed dial for Goren.

"You're not supposed to have cell phones in here," Diana said.

"You're not exactly in any position to be giving orders," Eames snapped. "Goren…God where are you? No, I've got her, I just… I can't bring her to you… We're in OR #4 in cardio… Can you just come get her? No, I'm fine… I just can't walk right now… Just get in here, okay!"

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, Goren came in with one of the uniformed officers from earlier. The officer led Diana away, but Goren's attention was fixated on Eames.<p>

"What the hell do you mean 'can't walk just now'? I'm out there searching the whole damn hospital and you've got me thinking she's paralyzed you or something," Goren sounded somewhat frantic.

"Not paralyzed, just a little… singed," she said, patting the palms of her hands. They were red and blistered, like she'd been pulling on rope so long they'd rubbed raw.

"Side effect from the shock. Burns on your extremities. Are your feet like that, too? Is that why you couldn't bring her?"

"I tried to stand up earlier, but they felt really tender. I wasn't going to let her bolt; I knew I could barely handle myself, let alone her."

He knelt down and reached for her boots. She pulled her foot away, wincing as it met the floor again.

"Alex, we're in a hospital. If there were anytime to disrobe, this would be it."

She gave him a questioning look.

"You know what I mean!" he said, exasperated. "I don't guess you're going to let the nurses wheel you out of here."

"You would guess correctly."

"And carrying you would fall under—"

"Hell no."

"Language, Aunt Alex," he said, attempting to lighten the mood. "Well, you'll lean on me then," he crossed to the table as she gingerly put both feet on the floor. She grimaced and leaned into him, some might say a little more than was necessary, but continued down the hall. He didn't say anything as they walked, but the look on his face didn't bode well for anyone in his way.

"We'll stop by the ER and get some ointment for your hands and feet. At least let them wrap up your hands," Goren said. It was slow progress, tip-toeing down the halls of one of the largest hospitals in New York.

"I still can't believe she shocked you. Did you not see her coming with the paddles?" he asked.

"She used some stick thing. Long enough for her to get the reach on me."

"An internal defibrillator. They only use those on the heart muscle exclusively. The shaft is long so it can reach deeply into the chest cavity."

"Again with the useless knowledge."

"Not useless. At least I would have known some voltage was coming my way," he said sharply, nearly stumbling over the entrance to the elevator. The look on her face turned his intense tone tender. "You know this would be much simpler if I could just carry you, right?"

"I'm letting you drive. Pick your battles, Bobby."

She was handling the pain much better than he was.

"And you got the confession?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Before or after the shock?"

"After."

"She must have been really shaken up. We didn't have that much on her. Did you bluff with the prints? Or talk about the rings we found in her desk? Was it the hospital pillow traces?"

"All of it Bobby, I know how to interrogate a suspect."

"I know you do, it's just…" the doors opened on the bottom floor and an ER nurse intercepted them. Alex was sent to a bed where a nurse wrapped her hands while Bobby fielded phone calls from Captain Hannah.

"Yes sir, both confessions. I was with Parsons, Eames with Richmond… Yeah, she's fine, getting some bandages then I'm taking her home… I'll tell her sir, but she probably won't take it. Yes, alright, thanks."

"You're good to go," the nurse said. "Twice a day, with the linens on, but keep them dry after it's soaked in. There may be some scarring."

"I've been through worse," Eames said, eyeing the curtains separating the beds in the ER.

"Come on, let's get you home," Goren said. They resumed their awkward positioning, but Eames didn't lean so heavily on him this time. He helped her into the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

"Still hate hospitals?" Goren asked.

"Even more so, now," Eames said.

They continued in silence for a few minutes.

"I didn't mean to suggest you didn't know how to interrogate a suspect."

"I know that Bobby."

"You know me, just naturally curious. What did she say exactly? I've got to know for the paperwork. With those hands, you won't be filling out forms any time soon."

She gave him the first sincere grin he'd seen from her in hours.

"She gave me an opening, and I took it."

"Which was…?"

"Gosh, Bobby, I just did what you do."

"And what exactly do I do?"

"You know, get in their head. Relate to them. Tell them what they want to hear so _you_ hear what you want to hear. Use their personal space, uncomfortable eye contact." She drastically leaned forward against her seat belt and turned her head to the driver's side to catch his eye. "You know, interrogation tactics. We learned them in the academy."

"I'm talking about specifics. What did she say about Gallagher? About Parsons? Were we right that she was in love with him? That she'd kill for him?"

"Yes, we were. I just zeroed in on that. You know, being in love with your… um, partner."

Funny how neither looked at each other again until they reached Eames' house in Rockaway, and funny how Goren just happened to see a pharmacy sign, which sparked an immediate turn in the conversation toward ointments and the best treatment for minor burns.

"Alright well, I'll see you tomorrow," Eames said.

"Cap said you could take the day if you need it. It's just going to be paperwork."

"I'm taking this afternoon. Plus I know how much you hate it." She made to exit the car, then looked at the stairs. Not a whole flight by any means, but still redoubtable when every step felt like a thousand searing splinters had found their way into her arch.

She looked back over her shoulder.

"Bobby, could you?"

"No problem."

She went to lean on him, but before she could protest, he scooped her up and placed her at the top of the landing.

"It was just quicker this way," he said sheepishly.

"Right. And if you talk to Diana again, you can just, you know, disregard anything she tells you I said. I mean, I was working to get the confession. So just know I might have stretched the truth."

"I trust you, Eames."

She shrugged and blew a wayward bang out of her face. "I know, just if the Captain, or… God forbid IAB gets into this..."

"Woah, IAB? Why are they involved all of sudden? You know those guys want to nail my ass to the wall."

Eames took a breath and focused her attention on the street. "She's going to write her confession statement, and if she talks about what I said to get her to tell me about the murder, it might come up that I've confessed my unrequited love for you, which tends to turn heads, namely from the administration, after our… whatever you call it." She waved her bandaged hand in the air, as if that explained 'whatever you call it.'

"You mean when you quit?"

"Yes, Goren, when I quit." She turned back to make eye contact.

"So, you aren't lying in a pool of self-hatred because you've been forbidden by department restrictions to confess your undying love for me?"

Eames rolled her eyes. "I hate it when you're smug."

"But it happens so infrequently."

"Just make sure neither one of us loses our jobs, okay?" she said.

He stood there on the landing, hands in his pockets. She had her ointment in a small paper bag, and her keys were in the door.

"It's just odd that she'd kill for him, you know? Tip him off about the suit, send him money to relocate I can understand, but kill?" Goren asked, shifting his weight back and forth.

"She didn't want him to leave. She wanted to keep working with him. I guess she thought it was the only way," Eames said. She inched a step closer to Goren.

"Yeah, I guess proximity has a lot to do with it. But it's not typical behavior. I mean, you'd never kill for someone, and you're a cop. You'd try to help them as best you could, but you wouldn't kill. You're too… ethical," he said, shifting slightly forward.

"Is that what I am? Well, I suppose you're right. I wouldn't kill, I don't think."

Goren nodded and looked at the ground. He closed the remaining distance and gave her one of those one-armed hugs. "Remember, put it on again tonight before you go to sleep."

"Yes doctor," she teased.

He trotted down the steps and back to his car.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd never kill, but… I think I'd die. You know, for somebody. Take a bullet. Whatever."

Bobby Goren gave her a half-smile. "John, 15:13."

"What?" Eames asked.

"Greater love have no man than this," he said.

"That he lay down his life for his friends," Eames finished. "See you tomorrow Bobby."

"See you tomorrow, Eames." He cranked the car and made his way back to One PP.

The next day there was a Venti white mocha on her desk. The name across the cup read 'Alex' with a smiley face on it. And, because she couldn't really pick it up, there was a bendy straw in it. And, for no special reason at all, Goren and Eames went out for drinks when they (he) finished most of their paperwork. And, since she was tired and her feet still hurt, she might have let him carry her up the steps again. And, because he was a concerned partner, he might have offered to stay and redo her bandages, and she, not wanting to be rude, might have asked him to stay for coffee. And, since it was getting late, he might have stayed at her house, on the couch, of course, if anyone from the department cared to ask. Or... maybe not. But this is all speculation, because, as you see, the time stamps have stopped. Which means the cameras have stopped rolling. And we can only speculate what happens between brilliant hearts and minds.

The End.

**_Well, I guess I like it. I always pictured whatever exchange went on between these two to be awkward and indirect, and most of all, open-ended. __Hope the case itself was fun and not too hard to follow. Reviews appreciated, as are vague and ambiguous references to Eames and Goren's shippy future in the final season. Thanks everyone!_**


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